


Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right

by CobaltLane (stopmopingstarthoping)



Category: Deadpool (Movieverse), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: BDSM Scene, Blood, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Gun Violence, Katana, M/M, Sex Club, tomfoolery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:42:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28591932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stopmopingstarthoping/pseuds/CobaltLane
Summary: Wade gets tasked with a unique infiltration, and is surprised when his buddy also needs to get to the same place. They get there together. Mostly on purpose.
Relationships: Jack Hammer/Wade Wilson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	1. CHAPTER ONE: SETUP

**Author's Note:**

  * For [quillingyousoftly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quillingyousoftly/gifts).



> Wade’s “boxes” are represented this way: [White] and {Yellow}.

God, it’s just like, for once a goddamn fucking Sunday to himself. A little unicorn time, a little junk food, some relaxation and maybe a nice calming string of reality shows with people yelling at each other…..

Was what Wade had planned. Instead it's Miss Hot Jumpsuit and Metal Arm Cranky Face, invading his space like it's some kind of favor to  _ him _ .

"Looking beautiful as always. Natasha, good to see you too." Barnes scowls at Wade, and he fake-giggles, because he can, and because it's good for Barnes to be teased, he's decided. 

"To what do I owe the absolute pleasure? Can I offer you something to drink? I have Mountain Dew  _ and  _ this morning's fresh coffee."

It's four p.m., and Barnes sighs. Nat just starts talking. 

"Look, we have something we need you to investigate. It's... unconventional."

"Ah, so you came to the weirdo. Very astute."

"Everyone is busy. We're stretched pretty thin, what with the whole—" Barnes stops talking as Romanoff stares at him. Obviously Wade doesn't have the clearance for this one. Also he doesn't watch the news. Lucky for them. 

"Loose lips sink ships; I thought you knew that, buddy." Wade shoves another Milano cookie into his mouth and stands up, brushing off the crumbs. 

"All right then; what do you need?"

Natasha arches an eyebrow at him, probably surprised he acquiesced so easily. It usually amuses Wade to be a bigger pain in the ass than this; it's true. But he's been bored as hell lately, and he's up for some carnage.

Natasha sits down at his kitchen table. "First thing: no carnage."

"God _ damn _ it. Ok; what's in it for me then?" Wade turns from the wall where he's been obscenely caressing the handles of some of his katanas. 

"A shitload of money, if you can shut up for thirty seconds and let us tell you about it." Bucky is cranky, shocker. Wade holds out a cookie, and he just waves it off. He shoves it in his own mouth instead, talking with his mouth full. 

"That's the second time you've refused my hospitality, did you know that?"

Bucky just shrugs.

"Don't remember?" He polishes the cookie off in a bite and wags his finger at Bucky, now seated at the table with Nat. "Pepperidge Farm remembers."

"Anyway. Money. I like that. Keeps me in the style to which I've become accustomed." He gestures around at his apartment and waits for Bucky and Natasha to make those weird faces that are somewhere in between unease and amusement, not sure whether to take him seriously or not. He loves that discomfort; rubs it all over himself like a pig in mud. Perfect. 

He sits down Riker-style, turning the chair around and trying to look all Official.

Nat’s face is serious. Stern. School-marmy, even. “So, there’s this sex club.”

Wade nods. “You need me to grab somebody going? Or coming?” He grins.

Bucky buries his face in his hand.

“No, we need you to infiltrate it.”

Wade’s...not wearing the suit, and he’s there in all his avocado-skinned glory. He looks at one of his hands, and looks back at them.

“Um. Oookaaaay.” 

Natasha smiles, and it’s just a little tight. “I’m sure you can figure something out. Here are the plans to the back office, and here’s where they keep the items we need.”

He looks back and forth between the two of them.

“You know, you can just buy this shit online, right? Seriously, I can’t open a single browser without getting advertised at least one giant d—”

Barnes leans forward, all intense and gravelly.  _ Oooh _ . 

“It’s a stockpile of military-grade rocket launchers. I’m sure it’s not a surprise to you that this place is affiliated with organized crime. We got word that they’re planning an all-out street war, and this gang in particular is not  _ ever  _ concerned with keeping their stupid fights away from civilian injuries. So we’d like to stop them before they get to it. And for that, we need to know their suppliers. Which apparently, they are dumb enough to write down someplace.”

“A, I think that’s more words than you’ve ever said to me in a row. Are you getting soft on me, sweetheart? B, do I get to keep some of the candy from the jar?” 

They answer at the same time, except Nat says “Fine” and Bucky says “Hell, no.” 

Wade laughs in response. “Good enough. I’ll text you when it’s done. Where do you want the rest of the candy delivered?”

They work out the details, and they’re out the door. Seems like they don’t want to stay long, and really, who can blame them? 

Wade closes the door behind them and picks up his unicorn from in front of the TV. This is going to kind of suck, and not in the good way. Time for some Wade time.

He’s most of the way to Nut-Land, sprawled out on the couch and imagining a three-way with The Rock and Becky Lynch: so what if they didn’t wrestle at the same time, this is  _ his _ fantasy, dammit—when there’s a knock. He ignores it, and jerks himself faster inside his sweatpants.  _ Aw yeah, dirty finish, let’s go, tag team it—  _

Another knock, more impatient.

“Come back later! Busy!” He’s really close, and he’s not interested in answering the door right now.

The door busts open, and thank the unicorn he’s got something to cover himself with. He scrambles to sit upright on the couch and tries unsuccessfully to think about anything but his throbbing boner.

“God _ dammit _ Weasel, I told you I was busy!”

“It can wait, Wade. You wanna pay rent this month?”

Wade’s busy thinking about Margaret Thatcher naked on a cold day, and he just glares….not entirely in Weasel’s direction. More...off to the side. He bites his lip, hard.

“This better be good.”

“It’s so good.” He picks up the coffee pot, sniffs it, puts it back, and then reaches for the Milano cookies.

Wade would get up and slap his hand, but the fucking Space Needle in his pants shows no signs of calming down, so he makes a little scolding noise. “Eh eh eh, those are for company.”

“I’m company,” Weasel mumbles through a mouthful of crumbs. “Look, there are at least a dozen expensive-ass Class Four weapons stored in the basement of a—”

“Sexy nightclub where people parade around with whips and leather and have a horny good time, yeah yeah. And they’re not in the basement, they’re in the ‘corporate offices.’”   


“You know?”

“I get around.” 

Weasel just squints at him; he doesn’t believe that for a minute, but it was fun anyway. Wade’s still got a fucking boner, and it’s making him cranky.

“I got this one taken care of.” He waves like it’ll make Weasel back down. Ha. Like that ever works. Worth a shot.

“Like hell you do. I’m already slated for a  _ meeting _ with the proprietress this very evening.” He takes on a mock-haughty tone and points his nose up in the air. “Pretending to be a potential client who wants to discuss  _ business _ ."

“You gonna tell her about your My Little Pony collection?” 

“Seriously, shut the fuck up, Wade. You gonna help, then? I could use a sidekick.”

“Oh, fuck you.” He’d throw the unicorn, but….yep. Still hard. He sighs. “Would you give me some  _ space _ so I can make those tattoos dance?”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Weirdo. Heading over tonight at nine. Be nice to have backup.”

“Be nice to have tacos.”

“Are you seriously asking that I pay you in food?”

“No way, dude. I get a gun, too. Big sexy one. Now go. But bring tacos, anyway.”

“Whatever, Wade.”


	2. CHAPTER TWO: CONFRONTATION

Wade rolls up in a reasonably normal outfit and a baseball hat. Trying to keep it low profile, but…

[But your face, right? Horrifying.]

{Remind me again why I’m not just lobbing a grenade in here and nabbing the bag?}

[You promised the normies you’d be nice.]

{So a supersoldier with a metal arm and a KGB-trained assassin are “normies” now, huh? What planet are you even on these days, anyway?}

[Living here in  _ your _ head, buddy.]

He manages to get past the bouncer and grabs a drink at the bar. Interesting place. People are walking around in various states of nudity, skimpy club clothes, lots of leather and straps, a full leather mask with zippers and shit (damn, he should have thought of that). 

There are various little raised stages and platforms and...even a couple of  _ cages _ around the room. Good times. Wade scans the room for anyone matching the descriptions he’s been given, but no go. Not so far, anyway. 

The big boss and her associates are supposed to be here at some point, though, so he’ll just hang out and bide his time. Fortunately, he fits right in. Looks like an absolute regular. Comes here all the time. Just your friendly neighborhood kinkster.

{I GET that it is SARCASM; you can STOP now.}

[Really? Because you’re pretty thick. Sometimes I think you don’t even—hey, speaking of thick, isn’t that Weasel?]

Oh holy shit. Weasel is...where did he even get leather pants? He’s kneeling on the platform off to the side, and there’s a lady holding him by a leash. Wade cocks his head, assessing whether Weasel’s really into this or if this is just a route to get to the guns.

Weasel catches his eye and grins. Well, the best he can do for a grin around the bright red ball gag stuffed in his mouth. He twitches his head to the side as if to tell Wade to beat it, but he has no plans of doing that. He’d planned to work this job alone, and whether Mr. BDSM Scene is going to help or not, Wade’s here to finish up and get what’s coming to him.

The lady holding Weasel gets out a flogger and grins. Weasel looks worried. He is  _ not _ used to this, or at least that’s what it looks like, and Wade watches him close his eyes tight.

Wade needs a stronger drink. He turns away, asking the bartender for something lethal and doing his best not to think at all of the scene playing out behind him and slightly to the left. Tresses crack, and he chokes, his five-dollar Sprite nearly spraying out his nose.

Turns out  _ not _ thinking about something is impossible when you’re told not to think about it. It’s even more impossible when that something is a shirtless, sweaty, leather-pantsed and collared  _ friend _ of yours making little whining noises that you’re  _ definitely not listening to  _ to figure out if they’re scared or horny. Or both.

Wade is nursing a drink he can’t really taste and won’t have any effect on him anyway when a guy walks by that exactly matches one of the descriptions. Tall, square-jawed, Magnum P.I. mustache. 

Rad, that’s him. One of them, anyway. Wade removes himself from his barstool and wanders over to the large bodyguard, slings an arm over his shoulder, and whispers sweet nothings in his ear.

Well, specifically he shouts over the music. “You guys got a back room around here?”

The guy’s head darts up, and narrowed eyes dart a hostile glance at him. “Not with you, buddy.”

“You sure? I heard tell you guys are  _ packing _ back there.” He waggles where his eyebrows would be if his face looked more like a face and less like a melted pizza. 

“Look, I’m not into you.” There’s a little bit of a drawl and a weave, and Wade takes advantage of what’s clearly at least one drink too many to kabedon this motherfucker right into the corner.

“I don’t know about that.” He pulls out a knife. Like, a short one, not a whole-ass katana or anything. "You sure you're not just a little bit into me?"

And….that’s it, really. You’d think he threw a goddamned molotov cocktail in here or something. A gigantic bodyguard type rushes him immediately. That confident look on his face says he’s got every expectation of smashing Wade into a pulp. 

Damn, Wade loves nothing better than fucking up someone’s expectations.

“Shall we dance?” He brandishes his blade - this time a little bit bigger one—in a move that’s downright stylish and a little bit fun.

It’s not his fault the fucker pulls out a gun.

It’s  _ especially  _ not Wade’s fault that all hell breaks loose. 

[Are you kidding me? That shit is always your fault.]

{Fuck you.}

Wade’s too busy shooting someone in the face and covering his own damn self as he ducks out the side door to engage with all that. Hell, he can’t even engage with the frankly impressive blood spray from the guy gurgling at his feet.

That was the katana. He’s pretty good with those.


	3. NEW CHAPTER TWO: CONFRONTATION WHERE I DON’T FUCK IT UP

All right, all right. He grabs the suit out of the trunk of the car and changes in a back alleyway. A scraggly gray cat yowls at him from the top of a dumpster as he’s struggling out of his club-worthy pants.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Eyes front, bucko.”

There’d been a service entrance on the map Natasha had looked over with him, so he stays in the shadows, outside the rampant cacophony still pouring out the front door, and finds a nondescript metal door in the right place. 

Of course it’s locked. 

If Wade was a clever, skilled mercenary, he’d have the skills and tools to pick the lock. It’s just a padlock. Hell, if he had better taste in YouTube videos he could probably learn enough to open it right up. Apparently there is some guy who teaches you how to pick locks of all different types.

But Wade’s not any of those things. And he doesn’t watch those videos. Wade’s YouTube taste tends more toward … well, not in polite company. 

So he just shoots the lock. The party out front is pretty loud, but not loud enough to disguise a gunshot, he doesn’t think. So he hustles down the hallway, grimy floor and swinging, naked bulbs lining the way. 

It skirts the outside of the club before wrapping around at the back, clusters of pipes bracketing the points where the walls, floors, and ceiling meet. If the map had been right, it should just be around this left bend....

He puts his ear to the door, and hears nothing. Again, it would be useful to be able to pick this lock. Maybe he really should watch those YouTube videos.

What are the odds? Someone comes out, and the door opens so he can duck behind it.  _ And  _ they aren’t smart enough to lock it behind them. Riding the high of stupid good luck, he ducks inside without being seen, and there’s the book on the table. He flips through it idly before picking it up.

It’s in code, but Metal Arm had told him they should be able to decipher it enough to implicate some corrupt city officials. Or something. Wade doesn’t really care, and he grabs the book and starts making for the gun locker.

Or what had definitely looked like a gun locker. What really, truly, seemed, for all intents and purposes like a— 

He can’t even finish the thought, before a big, imposing woman  _ steps out of it _ , ignoring the small whimper behind her, and slams the door shut. He’s so surprised that she gets the drop on him. Her hands are really fucking strong, and she doesn’t say anything, just squeezes, and waits, while he flails at her like one of those wiggle guys outside a mattress store. 

[Ok, dumbass, she has you by the  _ throat _ ; some strategy please?]

{Maybe that’s how I like it.}

[Hey, I’m not kinkshaming, just saying that your powers of figuring out how to get out of this absolute fucking mess are exponentially more bodacious when you have fresh oxygen available to your smooth little brain.]

{Right.}

The book flops to the floor like a defeated seagull before everything fades to black, and not in the fun way.


	4. CHAPTER THREE: RESOLUTION?

Consciousness zooms back in with a screaming headache and his face pressed against the wall with both hands behind his back. 

"Kinky. My safeword is—"

"Save it." Whoever it is, she handcuffs him and drags him out of the room and down the hall. 

"Noooo, that's boring and doesn't make any  _ sense. _ It's actually…."

"I don't care." She shoves him into a supply closet, and he hears it lock. He rests his head against the metal door and murmurs, "Zamboni. No one ever appreciates that."

The rest of the closet is— not large, and really warm. And squishy. And talking to him, apparently. 

"Dammit, Wade."

He doesn't want to admit it to himself, but his chest jumps in relief. He says, "Hi, Weasel," without turning around. "Too bad they took the ball gag off."

"Turn around, dude. Help me get out of this."

"Out of what?" Driven by curiosity, he's already shuffling around to see, and gets most of the way there before realizing that's stupid, given how dark it is in here. 

Well, they're face to face now. "Are you in handcuffs too, or…?" Weasel shuffles forward; he smells kind of—nice, actually. The brown hair that’s usually pushed back is falling over his forehead a little. 

"No, it's more of those ropes from before. Damn. Ok, if you  _ also _ can't use your hands this is pretty much worthless." 

“Okay. Let me try to….” He tries to yank his arms over his head, but it makes his shoulder feel like it’s going to pop out of its socket. Which, fine, it’d heal like everything always fucking does, and it’s not like he gives a shit about it hurting. But it’s not much use having a floppy, dangling arm if he’s trying to get back and get that book. 

Okay, maybe the other way around. He scoots his wrists as far apart as they’ll go, and down past his ass. Good job, Past Wade, for not doing squats and, therefore, not having more cake. He’ll remind himself of that later when he’s….

Not nose-level with Weasel’s crotch. It’s really cramped in here, and there had been a lot of...friction earlier. It’s probably not polite of him to notice, but he does. It’s distracting. It wouldn’t be so bad without those leather pants.

[You could just be a class human being and not say anything.]

{Is it really classy to ignore a hard-on this nice, though?}

“Nice chub, Wease.”

He jumps, as much as he can in the tiny space, and tries to squirm back away from where Wade is still squatted down, wrangling his feet through the cuffs. 

“Oh my god, Wade. Not now.”

“Yeah, absolutely. Now would be a terrible time for something like that.”

“Right? Glad we’re both uh—on the same page.” 

“Alright, lemme just…” Wade loses his balance, and tips forward, his cheek lovingly caressing the outline of Weasel’s hard-on through the pants. He makes a noise, then—not annoyance or disgust, but something that sounds an awful lot closer to the little whimpers he’d been making when that hot chick was beating him. Huh.

“Sorry.” That was a mistake, because Weasel’s cock jumps against the movement of his mouth, and—Wade looks up, out of instinct, because it’s still dark as fuck in here and he can’t really see much.

“You got something you want to share with the class?” It’s probably friction, nothing more than that, he thinks to himself, as he stabilizes and straightens up, and tries to  _ think _ , but it’s hard with all the—hard. Also, he’s never been this close to Weasel, and he’s warm, and seems to fit really well next to him, and—why is he thinking about this, anyway?

And why isn’t Weasel talking?

“Ok, so,” he pulls his still-handcuffed hands up his body, and really,  _ really _ awkwardly maneuvers them past hip-level. 

{Don’t think about—about anything.}

[Little Wade seems to have a differing opinion about that.]

{Okay, that is just  _ invasive. _ And if I was going to name it, I’d come up with something a lot more creative than that.}

“Hey. Wade.” 

“Yeah, okay. Don’t suppose you have a bobby pin.”

Weasel just laughs, and it’s tight, and kind of nervous.

“Wait, do you still have that collar thing on? Maybe the little metal loop on the front of that, if I can straighten it out…” He wiggles his cuffed hands forward to try to pry the little dangling thing off.

Weasel just nods, leans forward, and pulls the mask up with his teeth—okay,  _ hot _ —and...kisses him? It’s not tentative, at all, and it makes Wade’s nerves wake up and do a little samba under his skin. He overcomes his surprise enough to kiss back a little.

“You don’t have to do that.” The words leak out around their lips, and Wade mumbles a little. 

“Do what?” Weasel’s pressed against him from chest to crotch at this point, air heaving out of his lungs, and he literally has no idea where to look.

“The whole, kissing thing. I know what I look like.”

“Shut the fuck up, Wade.”

And he does. Well, except after a few moments he whines into the hot, greedy mouth kissing him. Call it Little Wade or what the fuck ever, but it’s hard as a fucking rock, now. 

Weasel starts talking into Wade’s neck, and he bites a little, and fuck.  _ Fuck _ , that’s nice. His breath stutters already, and he meets a hungry roll of hips with his own.

{ _ You _ are going to lay off…everything and let me enjoy this. Shut the fuck up. Comprende?}

Weasel kind of...can’t use his arms, but he’s just going for it now, and it’s pretty damn sexy, the way he’s putting the rest of his body into it.

Wade laughs, feeling a little (a lot?) self-conscious. 

He opens his mouth to ask, again, what’s going on, why this, why now, and is silenced by the pair of lips at his own again. 

Weasel pulls back briefly to say, “I might’ve said you’d need to tie me up and throw me in a dark closet to get me to admit I think about you like this but, well…” He shrugs and lets out his own tinny laugh.

Someday, Wade thinks, he’ll tell Weasel all about that one time with the unicorn. He’d thought the fantasy itself was a little weird, but who knows, maybe the guy is into belts. And it hadn’t stopped Wade at the time. 

And similar worries aren’t stopping Weasel now. He’s going at it like he’s got something to prove, squirming and writhing against Wade with his whole body again. 

“Yeah, okay.” His voice is embarrassingly breathy. “More of that, please.”

He wiggles his cuffed arms up and loops them, a little awkwardly, around Weasel’s neck.

“Look at us.” He laughs, rapidly becoming out of breath. “Doing sex stuff in a sex club. And they tried to stop us.”

Weasel bites Wade’s bottom lip, hard, and grinds against him with a low moan. His breath catches in the back of his throat, and he grinds back, the contact even through the layers of fabric sending electricity zinging right to his dick.

Well. Not literally. Apparently there’s a whole room for that.

It’s turning into a full-fledged dry hump in here, and Wade can feel tension building. Like, not in the metaphorical romantic sense. They’re two guys getting each other off in a supply closet, and that honestly feels way less awkward than it should.

But this time it is in the literal sense; his balls are pulled up tight, and his dick pulses hard against the hard length pressed and rubbing against it. He’s not going to last much longer, and he feels Weasel chasing it and bucking against him, too.

This isn’t the first time he’s come in the suit, and it won’t be the last. Cleaning it is a bit of a bitch, though.

It’s the furthest thing from his mind when he feels the body against his tense and jerk, and Wade decides to tilt his own head forward and go for it, licking into Weasel’s mouth just as he makes a big, pulsing, nasty mess in his suit. He comes a lot; more than usual, and they do a little aftershock-ping-pong game between the two of them that feels really fucking good. 


	5. CHAPTER FOUR: RESOLUTION, BUT FOR REAL

“Hey.  _ Hey. _ ”

Weasel’s chest is still heaving a little, but his head turns like he’s paying attention, so Wade continues.

“Post-nut clarity. That lady could have killed me, but she didn’t. Well, technically she probably would have crushed my windpipe, which would have  _ looked _ like it killed me but actually didn’t, and would have hurt like a bitch repairing itself, so that’s just dandy, but—”

“Wade. The point.”

“They have something planned that she was eager to get back to.” 

Weasel nods. “When I did my pre-screening they said something about a meeting in front of me and then they all shut up and looked secretive.”

“You manage to catch where?”

Weasel shakes his head.

“What good are you, then?” Weasel opens his mouth to retort, but Wade cuts him off. “Turn around. And no, I’m not going to spank you. Not until we get out of here, and not unless you ask nice.” His own hands freed, he fishes out one of his many knives and saws away at the ropes binding Weasel’s wrists until they fray and then part. “Waste of pretty rope, too. Is that silk?”

He jiggles the handle of the supply closet, but it’s locked. Not a problem— he gives the metal door a sharp kick and it gives way with a screech of protest. 

H e stops in the hall and cocks his head. “Hear that? The music got louder. I bet that ‘meeting’ you heard about was some kind of kink thing out in the main room.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. Are my powers of deduction ever wrong?” He sidles down the hallway, back to the room where he’s pretty sure he dropped that book— 

—and opens the door to a serious-looking circle of people in black suits. 

“Well, shit.”

“ _ Wade!” _

To his credit, Wade doesn’t kill  _ anybody.  _ He slashes at knees and ankles and buys enough time, sows enough confusion, to grab the book off one of the schmancy credenzas and toss it to Weasel. 

“Run, you fucker!” There’s a laugh in his voice and joy in his heart, and Wade positively leaps toward the storage container that absolutely does not contain any of the guns, then rips open the next four in the row before he finds them, freeing an ungrateful guy in a mask and finally grabbing everything his arms can hold. It’s not graceful, but it’s done.

“Move your sexy ass!”   


"Goddammnit, Wade." He's pounding along behind him with an endearingly heavy-footed, out-of-shape gait, and Deadpool turns around with an exaggerated finger over his lips. 

"SSSSSHHHHHHH THAT'S MY  _ SECRET IDENTITY _ !" 

“You’re such a dumbass.”

“Is that a smile I see? You love adventuring together.” 

He grabs Weasel’s hand and skips, flinging a knife into the face of one of their pursuers.

They manage to get about six blocks away and down an alley before Weasel waves him to a stop, breathless, a hand on one knee but still clutching the book.

Weasel grabs him by the shirt and kisses him hard on the mouth.

“There’s a taco truck down the street. I can see it from here. You owe me.”

“Wade, it’s three in the morning. And you have an armload of rocket launchers.”

“ _ I know. _ Isn’t it  _ romantic _ ? 

"Tacos taste so fucking good at three in the morning. You have no idea.”

Weasel just laughs, and follows him. 


End file.
